


Dangerous.

by espiritus



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: F/M, Feels, I regret nothing., Suicidal Ideation, The feels are real, slightly angsty, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-17 06:12:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13070802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/espiritus/pseuds/espiritus
Summary: I went down the Youtube rabbithole, and found a gorgeous song of the same name that inspired this little story~ definitely give it a listen, if you have a chance.(TW: though it's never been stated outright in any of my works, it's heavily implied that Von is suicidal or struggles with suicidal thoughts at various points, so I decided to explore that part of her character. If you are triggered by these sorts of things, please make sure that you are completely safe before you proceed.)





	Dangerous.

**Author's Note:**

> _your little lies are oil on my skin;_   
>  _your little lies cannot let me in._
> 
> -Two Steps From Hell & Linea Adamson, _Dangerous_

It's another grey day in the Commonwealth. Rain pounds the tin roof of the little shack like a hail of bullets, but Von pretends not to notice as she shivers against the night air. She'd rather be back at Sanctuary, warm and snug in the root cellar, but she's here instead, and all because she said she wanted to be alone.

Of course, she isn't technically _alone_. Deacon's with her on official business, since Desdemona was adamant that a single agent wasn't enough for this particular mission, even though Von herself knows she's more than capable.The real reason she'd hoped to solo this op is because the element of risk is high... and her chances of returning alive are virtually nonexistent.

MacCready is probably in the root cellar, stewing over the things she said back at the Rexford. He's mad because she needed space again, almost as if he's forgotten what it feels like to lose someone. Lucy's been cold in the ground for nearly five years, and Von wishes that she could be there too. She doesn't want to tell him that she can't do it- that they never should have been more than friends- and, even after Lucy, her death would be easier on him than the truth.

She lights a cigarette and takes a long drag, sputtering as she struggles to breathe over the smoke in her lungs, and Deacon turns to look at her. She's beautiful, in the same tragic way as those old poems about death and dying that he loves so much, and it hurts because those poems have more life in them than she does.

_Insert something Shakespearean involving death and your inevitable doom here._

"Since when do you smoke?"

Von's green eyes flicker open, and she glares poisoned arrows at him. She doesn't talk about her feelings, or trust anyone enough to not use them against her. Except MacCready. And she doesn't even know if she'll have him to confide in once her true intentions are thrust into the light.

"Since right now. If I wanted someone to order me around, I'd rewind the clock two centuries and go back to boarding school. Why the hell does it matter what I-"

She's rambling now, though Deacon has already stopped listening. Whisper never fills empty space for its own sake, and it only confirms what he already knows.

"Don't give me that shit, Whisper. Every day, for almost a year, MacCready has offered you those damn cancer sticks at least once a day, and you always say no. What's changed?"

She stops and glares again, chasing her cigarette with a massive gulp of whiskey, straight from the bottle. "Shut up," she slurs, her voice weak with exhaustion. "What are you, my father? Mind your own business and get out of mine before I shove this rifle down your throat."

She gestures with her gun, and he sees that she hasn't even taken the safety off- a rookie mistake, and definitely not one she'd make, were she in her right mind. She's unraveling like a ball of yarn, which could compromise this whole mission if he doesn't find a way to get the situation under control. If Desdemona had let her do this alone, she'd be as good as dead... and it's only as the thought pops into his head that he realizes, maybe, that's what she wants.

From a few yards away, the telltale beep of a super mutant suicider's bomb counts down the inevitable demise of whatever catches its attention first. And, before he can stop her, Whisper's on her feet, racing toward the sound at lightning speed. Deacon leaps up and gives chase- even with a few drinks in her, she's faster and in way better shape than he is, but he has to catch her before she gets herself blown up.

Time slows to a crawl as he takes stock of his surroundings. There's a small shack to the right, which could serve as a buffer against the blast, though they'd take a ton of rads. In front of them is a stretch of endless field, some bloodbugs, and a tent, with a stone wall and a drainage pipe- he can run them off the bridge, though it's a 20-foot drop and there's a high chance of someone breaking one or both legs. But creating diversions is what he does best, and perhaps it's their only real chance.

"Hey, ugly- eat this!"

He pulls out a grenade and throws it into the chaos. Both Whisper and the suicider stop moving, far enough apart that Deacon is able to catch up. He grabs her just as the grenade goes off, causing the suicider to explode- there's fire and smoke everywhere, but it provides the cover necessary to get her out of harm's way- by the time the other mutants realize what happened, he and Whisper will be long gone.

They finally reach safety, in the form of an old parking garage. Deacon's heart is thudding like a trip-hammer, and his arms hurt from carrying Whisper, who's been trying to escape since he picked her up- she must have headbutted him at some point, because there's blood dripping from his nose that wasn't there before. Maybe he should have sedated her first- there hadn't been time for that, but he makes a mental note to keep a few vials of Calmex in his med kit from now on.

He sets her down on top of a yellow sleeping bag, figuring he'll keep her where he can see her while he tends to their injuries. But, as he's reaching for his med kit, she starts screaming- a loud, otherworldly noise that sounds like she's being ripped apart by deathclaws. And, on the inside, maybe she is.

"Fuck you," she sobs, her voice a terrible, heartbroken shadow of itself. "First, those goddamned nukes couldn't kill me, and now... Two hundred years, and I can't even fucking die right!"

It's a feeling he knows too well, a familiar face in a crowd of strangers. Sure, it's only been five years, maybe ten- he stopped counting after three- since Barbara was ripped from his world. And, suddenly, he's back in that tiny cabin, covered in blood as the last of her screams fade into the crisp autumn air, wishing that he had died with her.

"Whisper-"

"Go away! Just leave me alone!"

But he can't, won't do it. And, before either of them knows what's going on, he's kissing her. Why, he's not entirely sure- instinct, maybe, or a distraction from whatever's got her in this state to begin with. But her lips are soft and warm, the taste of whiskey lingering on his tongue as her kisses pull him out of the darkness. He knows he shouldn't- she's vulnerable, and it feels like he's taking advantage of her. But he can't stop because he needs this like he needs air. They both do.

She's an oasis in this irradiated hellscape, her eyes the only light that doesn't burn. And, technically, she's MacCready's, not his. But she doesn't stop him, not even when he slips his tongue between her lips and swallows the sob that rises up in the back of her throat like a tsunami. So much of this is wrong. But she's everything right with the world, in all of its fucked-up glory.

"Whisper, I-"

"Don't," she says, cutting him off midsentence as neatly as an axe through bone. "Please, don't."

She doesn't want to hear that he loves her. Not when she's at her most unlovable, consumed by guilt and grief and wrongs she can never hope to right. But he doesn't have to say it at all. She knows.

It's raining harder now. A fresh flow of tears slips from behind her eyelids, indistinguishable from the rain. Her mouth is still crushed beneath his, chest aching, fingers twisted in his wet hair like it's a lifeline. And, in that brief moment, perhaps it is.

"You really think you're the only one who can't die right?"

The boldness of his statement catches her off-guard. "What in fuck's name does that mean?" she demands, more broken than angry. "When _your_ world ends, we'll talk."

"It already has. Maybe not with the same fiery blast as yours, but that doesn't mean it was easier."

_This is how the world ends. Not with a bang, but a whimper. Eliot was right all along._

A few minutes pass, and he takes her silence for an apology- the closest he'll get to one from her, at least. And so, he plants a kiss on her forehead in a gesture of understanding: an unspoken agreement not to breathe a word of this to MacCready, or Des, or anyone. In their line of work, feelings are a dangerous affliction that don't serve any practical purpose, other than getting loved ones killed. It's a lesson he's already learned the hard way, and he's determined to protect Whisper by any means necessary.

Even if it means saving her from herself.


End file.
